


picking off the petals

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, this fic is my extreme enthusiasm for connor shining thru
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 11:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17980367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: He takes everything he has, everything he loves and could love, and keeps it close until it is all but torn from his arms.





	picking off the petals

**Author's Note:**

> hockey is killing me here so this is how i cope :-)
> 
> title from unfold by alina baraz!

Connor has never stopped loving. 

He loves the rink like he loves his favourite pair of skates. For the longest time, he has loved the Leafs and for an even longer time he’s been falling and falling for his country. The red against the white, like scarlet paint strewn across fresh ice. Like his lucky red scarf lost in the winter snow.

Connor falls in and out of love like he changes clothes, jumping between favourite drinks at Tim’s, the way he wears his hat:, or the kind of music he chooses to hook up with his aux. 

His first love must’ve been hockey, because it is the earliest memory he has that makes his heart swell and stomach twist with butterflies. When he was too young to tie his own shoe laces and hit the ice with all the confidence in the world. 

Connor held the love tight against his chest, refusing to let it go. Since then, he’s loved his sport more than anything.

He had realized it by 6, 7, 8 and knew it was the only way he wanted to go by 9. He knew it the way he knows how to tape his stick well enough to do it in his sleep, knows it like he knows to keep a pair of sweats in his stall, like he knows when to shoot or pass.

Connor thinks he could love this and only this for as long as it will take him, because with hockey he earns a chance to forget much else. And he knows that sometimes forgetting is just what you need.

 

 

He feels the closest he’s ever felt to playing hockey off the ice during training camp. He meets Frederik Andersen and his silent smile and closed off looks in Toronto. On a day he didn’t think he’d ever _stop_ thinking about hockey.

He stops. Because Andersen is in the locker room close enough to his stall that he’s a distraction, and Connor takes that chance to stare and watch. His eyes are the same colour as hot chocolate on nights stolen by the frost but Connor tells himself they’re brown because something about downplaying just how much he looks makes it easier to feel less. If he stomps down the sunset behind his eyes and tries to hold it back, if he’s nonchalant, he can distract himself. 

Hockey has always been the distraction for him, but it’s different like this. When the same shiver in his chest he gets from scoring a goal is the exact emotion he’s trying to avoid. 

Connor speaks to Andersen with all of that stomped down, when he’s on the ice and far gone enough to not think much about the crinkle of joy behind his goalie cage. 

“Hi,” he says bluntly, and, “We haven’t actually met, but Andersen, right? I’m Connor.” 

Andersen nods, and Connor wonders just how noticeable it is that he follows his gaze when it falls to the ice. Connor wonders if it’s wrong that the only thing he sees right now is Andersen rather than the ice itself. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve heard some things about you from Mitch.” There’s a laugh behind that somewhere, Connor catches it and doesn’t know if he wants to forget it. 

He tells him, “you should probably forget everything you’ve heard,” and offers up a sheepish smile before skating off. The sooner he breaks off the better.

While Connor plays hockey, all he thinks about is the puck, his stick, and the ice. Just like always. But there’s this distinct nagging in the back of his head, like too much of just one feeling is a bad thing.

 

 

He’s heard enough things playing hockey to wonder if holding onto something as hard as he does was ever made for people like him. People that wear their heart on their sleeve and never realize until it‘s too late that they’ve been clinging too tightly. Relying too heavily. Holding on too hard.

It’s the grip he has on his life that makes it difficult to let go of much more than he would ever allow himself. He isn’t able to let go of the playoff loss his last season in the AHL, he can’t drop the rough scoring drought he sometimes hits, he wishes he stopped thinking so harshly about getting sent down a month after playing up in 2015.

He takes everything he has, everything he loves and could love, and keeps it close until it is all but torn from his arms. 

Connor was never told to love and let go. So he stuffs all his things into a bubble and refuses to watch them leave, because, to him, the fear of loss is far greater than anything else.

 

 

He can lose games, lose points, lose his dignity, but he doesn’t know if he’d be able to live with himself if he lost hockey.

He plays it because he doesn’t know how else to defend against the things threatening to rip his joy away from him. Connor plays hockey because without it he’s nobody. Hockey gave him his heart, but it also gave him his name. It made him who he is, and to it, his attention is all he can give. 

Connor burns bright, he climbs high, he plays like his life depends on it, but the other shoe always drops. The fuse will go out, he’ll fall from his mountain, and everything could collapse. Today, maybe. Tomorrow, perhaps. 

That’s the last thing that hits him before he steps out onto the ice one night and anxiety scratches at the back of his throat like he’s never felt it. Clawing fingers tear away at him, and Connor realizes it’s what he gets for doubting. 

It’s easy to earn back the confidence when he hears the cut of ice beneath him and shreds shavings like he has since he learned to skate. Like a time machine, almost, but something in Connor’s gut burns dark and ominous at face off.

It’s the small price to pay. Just that part of the deal.

 

 

Hockey won’t leave him.

It’s what Connor knows by heart, when he’s lying awake in bed staring up at the empty grey ceiling of his bedroom, the room drenched with moonlight that sneaks in through openings in the curtains.

Hockey is with him for as long as Connor needs and he’s had it for decades. Hockey won’t find someone better, it won’t grow tired of him, and it won’t up and leave the second something goes wrong. 

Hockey will always be there. Connor thinks it’s one of the only things he can let himself be open and vulnerable with without that deep seated fear of being left broken creeping up on his bones. It’s always this persistent fright, swirling like poison in his stomach. 

He’s still trying to understand himself, he’s not sure if understanding the rest of this will be any easier.

Because—in the back of his head he knows there’s nothing there for him after retirement. After this is over, it’s all over. That, he can shut out. It doesn’t make things any better, but Connor was raised to turn to the bright lights and sunshine. Forget is what he does best. 

 

 

There was a boy in high school. Once, when Connor lost his head in the stars and had nothing but this to ground him. Because it’s easier to latch onto the wrong things when everything spirals into a mess of feelings. When he can’t tell one from the other. 

Like when Connor found himself learning the slide of his lips, the curve of his hips and just how much further he had to tilt his chin just to reach his mouth. And he couldn’t tell that apart from the rush he felt on ice, the jolt of feelings that plagued his head. He couldn’t figure out whether or not it was what he wanted. 

But sometimes, Connor lets himself think some. He lets his thoughts linger on kissing boys, and maybe kissing someone that makes joy pour out of his chest. Someone that helps him submit to happiness, just to feel like that again. 

Without the skates and the ice, without any of the strings attached. 

It comes to him fervently sometimes, the want, but if he gives into the warmth that easily it’s a little harder to withstand the cold.

Despite that, sometimes he’ll look at Freddie and just can’t shake it. 

 

 

The amount you‘d have to dive to reach the bottom of his heart is something rivalled only by oceans deep enough to suffocate him in dark blue waters. Dipping to the bottom of his love is just how you’d find the bottom of an ocean, with its own restrictions and challenges. 

It takes a lot, to get that far. Nobody has ever explored every ocean, every sea, every body of water splotched across the planet. Nobody has ever been to the bottom of Connor’s heart, like it’s something he keeps locked up. Something quiet and secretive that he’s terrified of holding out in the open. 

Hockey touches it, sometimes. If it hasn’t already, it’ll get there. 

Like on quiet night where he’s got the rink to himself and nobody else. When he’s alone with the lights and the ice and he thinks he could live in it forever. Cloaked in the pinch of frost within arena walls, lost in everything laid out for him like a rumpled quilt.

He doesn’t know how deep his love could go, but the the ecstasy he feels on the ice, the high he gets from all of that could come close, he thinks. Although there isn’t a single way of knowing. 

 

 

It takes a whole season for Connor’s head to catch up for his heart.

He has empty spots in his chest filled out by the pink of Freddie’s cheeks, the glint of his grin, the way his voice is smooth like honey and just soft enough around the edges for Connor to melt. For him to lean right into him and want to listen for as long as he can. 

82 games is what it takes. 

82 games and a postseason with four losses that make his head cloud with frustration. It’s a scabbing wound, left to heal and fend off the pain all on its own. 

He’s tucked away at his stall, breathing slow. In. Out. And the room fades into broken shards and jagged edges.

Part of him thinks he might start crying, but he blinks and nothing happens. The world, _his_ world is ripped from his hands and everything feels empty. Hollow. Nothing comes out. He wants to scream, sob, say something, but everything leaves him in shallow breaths. 

The rest of the guys are here, but all Connor registers over the heavy silence is the hand that lands on his shoulder. It’s a weight warm enough that Connor can inch into it and feel his grief shifting gears in his head. Turning to something controlled, calm, and then confusion.

Connor looks up.

Freddie says, “hey, c’mon,” and for the first time in what feels like ages, Connor sees the corner of his mouth curl up into a little smile. It’s melancholy, void of any real joy, but it’s all Connor turns his attention to. 

He wants him to say _it’s okay_ because something about hearing Freddie say it would make it all the more real. He’s waiting for it. 

“We’re gonna get over this,” Freddie says instead, and Connor’s fingers are itching to settle on top of his. To let him transfer the heat in his hands into Connor’s skin, so he can really feel it. “You, me, the guys, we’re gonna play through this next year. And make it.” 

Connor nods, this slow jerky motion. It feels unnatural. “Yeah.” 

He wants to know he’ll be okay. Wants Freddie to tell him. So, he’s waiting for it. Waiting for it. Waiting for it.

But Freddie’s here with him and maybe that’s all he needs. 

 

 

Impulse control is impossible. 

Connor is drawn to the things he wants like a child in a candy shop. He’s lured in with lowered defences and wide eyes, pulling him right into the arms of what he wants. 

Usually, it’s the temptation of a late night skate, or something sugary far out of the reach of his diet plan, or even something new he doesn’t need. But it hasn’t been someone for a while. Someone Connor hasn’t been able to take off his mind, despite desperate efforts and the constant reminder of hockey, hockey, hockey.

Connor has always put it first. And hockey never started as a way for him to hide, but that’s what it has become. A wall for him to duck behind rather than face forward. Courage comes in bursts and it never quite finds its way back to Connor when he’s off the ice and out of his equipment. When he feels so exposed, too easy for the rest of the world, his heart in the open.

It takes him weeks to talk to Freddie when he finally realizes what the prickling inside his ribs means. When he realizes that the bones strewn together into a cage not only hold his heart and his lungs, but his love. And Connor can’t remember the last time he stopped loving.

That’s just not where this ends. 

 

 

Love is a miracle and getting to love is something so special, like being loved back. Earning something like that in return, it’s a gift. 

He hasn’t been able to imagine himself projecting the same love he has for hockey onto something else— _someone_ else and it makes his head spin just thinking about it. Feeling the way he does in an arena out of one and instead in someone’s arms, in a _boy’s_ arms. That’s one part of it that has always terrified him, chipping down the brick wall of courage he’s spent years trying to strengthen. 

But there is no distraction great enough to push this away. No matter how he tries to play around it.

 

 

There’s a reason it’s Freddie. 

Because when Connor backs away from him, Freddie persists, and all Connor can do is float in a haze of disbelief. It’s Freddie’s worried eyes that wash every last bit of anxiety out of him. Like liquid courage, passing in waves, and it’s magic. Connor can finally breathe.

They’re in the player parking lot directly after a game and all he can do is watch as the light from the lamps dances over Freddie’s face, pouring stars into his eyes like this isn’t already hard enough. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands or his thoughts. How to balance out his weight or what the pulse loud in his ears means. This is new and familiar all at once. It’s how he felt the first time he learned to skate. 

Freddie asked why he’s been so unattached. It wasn’t anything big, but Connor came up with the answer immediately. He just didn’t say it. Didn’t know if he wanted to. If that would be a good idea. 

“I think I’m mad at myself,” Connor explains, his voice strained like he’s nothing less than reluctant to be admitting it. “For thinking about you.” 

Freddie’s looking at him with set shoulders and a controlled expression and Connor almost hopes he didn’t catch what he said. Like the wind could carry his words off and lose them, so they’d never touch anyone’s ears but his.

Yet, “What do you mean? Connor, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Freddie tells him, all in a rush like he’s afraid Connor might leave. He doesn’t look panicked, just sounds it. It might be the most emotion that’s ever been packed into his voice all at once, Freddie isn’t known for his enthusiasm. 

“Please don’t make me say it,” he pleads, and feels the ache that rips at his chest seconds thereafter. He’s never felt it like that before. It’s worse than any check could ever be. “Freddie, please.” 

There’s a moment between them, the briefest pause. It’s less than a beat, but it feels heavy and high-strung, like something Connor should be filling in. Really all he sees is Freddie’s mouth twisting like he’s just picked up on this now. Picked up on what Connor’s been trying to tell him. 

“What?” 

There’s isn’t enough behind it for Connor to gauge a reaction, but he ends up blurting, “we don’t have to—we don’t. I just. I think I like boys, and.” He gestures a little vaguely, feeling too small for his skin. “Please say something.” 

Freddie says, “do you want to?” It’s almost shy. Enough that Connor feels like he’s dreaming, floating maybe. And he’s wanted to forever. He’s wanted to for longer than he’d even realized. 

If he nods, he thinks he’ll be fine. If he lets Freddie kiss him high on the cheekbone and parts to go home just to think, and breathe, and process this—it’ll be fine. He’s fine and it’s the best he’s felt in forever. 

 

 

Freddie isn’t perfect. He’s so much more than that, better than perfection itself, and Connor can only experience that as he allows himself to. 

Because relationships don’t come packaged with fate or destiny, they aren’t as they are in movies or flicks. Instead nothing short of a mess just to get a handle on. Relationships are so heavily based on choices, decisions, and the work you put into them. 

Connor has spent enough time playing hockey to know just how to dedicate himself to something, how to pin his heart to just what he wants and give it his everything. So it’s easy, to let Freddie have that. To hand over a piece of him. 

And Connor will keep choosing him. That’s something he’s sure of. It isn’t fate. It isn’t destiny. It’s just who he is, to keep a home within himself.

 

 

Connor is still learning who he is. He’s flooding with emotion and dripping with the anticipation to figure this out. 

He opens himself up with carefully chosen words and lets his story flow from the humble pond it began as to the ocean it can become. When he lets himself live in the moment, he is more than just a hockey player. It is easier to understand when he lets himself explore, until he realizes that he isn’t the one who’s lost, but it’s the path that happens to be lost. Streets twisted into knots and roads that lead to destinations Connor could never even fathom. 

He has all the time in the world on his side, to journey and pick places to visit. To understand what he wants and what he needs, to make clear classifications between the two.

Freddie could fall into both categories, maybe, Connor thinks so. He could get lost in the tense air between their lips and let Freddie be the light that guides him, he could need him and want him all at once. It’ll be the mountain he dies on. 

Connor is learning. He is growing. It’s an adventure that starts with taking a single step out the front door, and that he won’t do alone either. Rather, with his hand in Freddie’s, the distance between loving and being loved finally closed off. And that’s his quiet start. This is where it begins.


End file.
